


Graciosa

by pearypie



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Affection, Character Study, Dark, Gen, Innocence, Introspection, Loss, thought process
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-13
Updated: 2016-06-13
Packaged: 2018-07-14 19:41:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7187441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pearypie/pseuds/pearypie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A brief vignette into the mindset of Ciel Phantomhive while he was designing the Lily of the Valley perfume. </p><p>(A reconciliation of the mind that touches, in shallow motion, a memory of what has been.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Graciosa

The sun shone like a crystalline lemon-drop, glittering beautifully against a clear, pale blue sky. The warm breeze of May wavered gently, cooling the flushed cheeks of schoolchildren and gently ruffling the pink silk ribbons of wide eyed debutantes. It was a splendid scene of bucolic tranquility that was rejected, almost entirely, by the Earl of Phantomhive. The boy-earl remained barricaded in his unwieldy, Tudoresque office of dark walnut wood and blood red carpeting. His grandiose desk was neatly diffused of litter save for two carefully prepared brown leather folders that looked oddly out place in so ostentatious a setting.

Seated on a plush, emerald green armchair of luxurious styling and fine black wood, the earl read a preliminary report with a look that connoted both boredom and disgust. It was a trademark he'd patented, an expression both repellent and strangely endearing—one that matched his temperate perfectly. He felt no joy in the reading of these reports. Dismal and pathetic and entirely not up to par.

Though he knew that death was never far away, Ciel Phantomhive enjoyed the meticulous framework that business required. Having inherited his father's acumen and his grandmother's fierce ambition, it was not terribly surprising when he began cornering new markets left and right for Funtom to enter into.

Profit was of little concern as the earl, a man of concise pleasure and bare frivolity, saw that money—ductile and uncertain—was simply a measure of success. Life in and of itself was a series of business transactions—accruals and investments that had to be carefully monitored lest they fall short of expected earnings. It was why he had pushed with such intelligent vigor and unabashed restraint into the dining, outerwear, oil, textile, mining, and export business—the earl disliked coming in second to any man and, with his haughty blue blood, decided Funtom (that paper thin extension of himself) would rise above every other company as well.

So when the murders were documented and the paperwork done, the earl turned sapphire eye to the rapidly rising sector of _cosmetics._ Oh vanity! That welcome flattery all great men cherish! Vanity—that blissful sphere of willful ignorance and crepe-chine admiration! Vanity, the ardor that dies with the trials of spring. Vanity, the cry of Echo after youth has faded and solitude set in.

Vanity: the sin of kings and queens and tzars alike who long for immortality but remain cordial towards death.

Vanity! The greatest surplus humanity has to offer—women long to keep their butterfly's wings and men, with their fragile egos, long to keep social reverence. Ciel understood that concept better than anyone else. Vanity, it was the reason civil war erupted within peaceful nations. Vanity, it was why brother went against brother. Vanity, how it must have laughed when the gates of Troy opened and allowed that Grecian victory. _Vanity._

It would most likely match the confectionary in terms of profit.

Raising a jewel pale hand, Ciel crossed out entire paragraphs and rewrote the typecast words into beautiful phrases that rang with Machiavellian realism and the sort of dry black humor no child should ever possess. _It is amusing to know,_ the earl wrote mirthlessly, _that women shall flock to these garish products in the vain hope of amassing allure when, in reality, ignorance is all that increases._

He had decided on perfume—that would be the first beautifying product sold by Funtom for the simple reason that all good perfumers had relocated to Cologne or Paris. A market in need of a supplier; a businessman who was willing to sell. Really, it was remarkable that no one else had dared try. _Then again, no one else has a charter from the queen._ He smiled sardonically, ending one correspondence and beginning another.

The bottle's design he liked—it had been drawn by Sir Richard Carter Maine, an aspiring architect from Cambridge who'd lost his father's favor after eloping with the glassblower's daughter. The scandal had been deliciously festive and Ciel capitalized on Sir Richard's infamy—imagine, a nobleman of great charm and intellect falling in love with a penniless girl and you, buyer dearest, could have the chance to have such a romance. The bottle, designed by him, would inspire in customers the romanticized daydreams of Hans Christian Anderson and no doubt bolster the perfume's popularity. (Well, perhaps not _popularity_ but Ciel and a talent for making notoriety work on his behalf.) _The exquisite lust for romance is truly the most credulous of all desires._ Ciel smirked, writing down the final figure with a flourish of black ink.

Accounting and projected earnings had a way of calming his frenzied mind—the trusted, solid foundation of numbers and sums was something he'd always liked. Predictability was terribly fun to prey upon.

Next, he grimaced, came the actual product. Though he was relatively apathetic towards the entire process, it was, nonetheless, Funtom's name at stake. He refused to put out a perfume that would not sell or, worse yet, a second rate product people _would_ buy. He had no qualms about deceit but the seven sins applied to him as well.

Ciel Phantomhive was the Queen's Watchdog, the scourge of the underworld whose reputation rendered criminals into panicked states of fear and heartache. His company, too, should eclipse all others and their product should be of only the finest quality— never mind what the product was.

 _And now, for the sake of propriety, I shall have to endure the tasteless meandering of florists and chemists who think dried flower petals will increase the attraction of already boorish women._ His contempt defined, Ciel opened the second leather bound folder and read, for approximately twenty two minutes, formulas and mixtures that put the most hideous scowl on his beautiful face. Minutes later, the folder was tossed halfway across the room and, only seconds thereafter, the butler appeared.

"My lord." He bowed politely, lips curved in that perpetual half-smirk that both enthralled and aggravated.

"I need fresh paper and I want that," he pointed to the discarded file, "burned." The earl sneered. "Subpar work at best. I also want the men fired—to think they could try and deceive me simply because of my age. What _nonsense._ "

"Men never do seem to learn from the wise." The butler moved like a ribbon untouched, pivoting with curved elegance, his footsteps regular in waltz-like grace.

The earl, for the most part, ignored the demon's show. _Crying for the attention of anyone or any thing._ The boy mocked cruelly, for he could hate as easily as he could breathe. Yet the butler did not seem to mind. Moments later he found three sheets of thick cream stationary in front of him alongside a heavy, cobalt blue fountain pen.

Designing a fragrance was not the conscious objective—designing _emotion_ was what counted. Almost subconsciously, Ciel's hand began to move.

_Oranges—sweet and natural, the freshly sliced fruit; one that's basked under the summer sun. A warm skin with a faintly bitter aroma but once sliced open, has a sticky sweet juice sliding down one's fingers—and there the dance is. Cool and sweet, refreshing and flavorful with the faint bite of lemon that is quickly overwhelmed by the juice's natural flavor._

_Then, lavender flowers—the kind that blooms under the pale full moon and fills the inky night air with delicate calm and the memory of a nightingale's song._

_The air just before the sun sets—when everything seems to flutter and be still all at once. When the sky is fiery orange-red, casting shadows on everyone and everything—_

With a start, Ciel halted his handwriting. He discarded that sheet. Madam Red was gone.

With pen poised, he began anew.

_Lemon sweet. Tinted with warm sunshine—the pure, unfiltered ray that kisses the earth during the first months of June. Tart and hopeful with just a touch of honey._

_A delphinium sky. The same sort of arcadian blue Virgil would wander out to and, being stunned by its pastoral beauty, would sit and compose for the world the next great poem. Crisp, sweet air. As pure and all-consuming as the love of god._

_Freesia blossoms, the happiness of an afternoon. White lilies and delicate violets—elegant but inspiring warmth. The same warmth Lizzy possesses when—_

No. He crumpled the paper immediately.

To try and capture Elizabeth's essence would be a pittance. She wore a fragrance unique to her golden curls and loving, earnest smile. Selfishly, he didn't want anyone else wearing it—not Lizzy's sweet, sunshine lemon scent that brought, even in his pitch-black moods, a sliver of untouched joy.

He wanted distance from this. An abstract relation. Something that could be universally admired. Something unrelated to the depths of his heart.

Then:

_Sea pearls—luminescent and shimmering, the same way the water glitters under white sunshine._

_Gardenias and French blossoms—lily of the valley. Its stately elegance reminiscent of the fine French court during the Sun King's reign. Ermine and blue, blue blood._

_Light and dainty, the fair queen's fragrance; entrenched in her mystical soul. Draped green finery, wide forest leaves, swaying verdure willows. Sorrow, love, purity, and innocence._

_Lily of the valley—like music (the gentility of strings) and the soft, sweet breathing of two lovers._

* * *

"Sebastian."

The enigmatic butler appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, with a silver serving tray tucked under his left arm. "My lord?"

Ciel handed him a folded and sealed envelope, the dark red wax emblazoned with the Phantomhive crest. "Take this to Whitehall and Belmont. Tell them Lowther and Watton have been replaced by Monsieur Percinet."

Sebastian arched one elegant brow. "And I take it that the generous Monsieur Percinet should like to remain obscure and unknown, corresponding with only you young master?"

His master's glare was patronizing. "It is not your place to question me."

"Of course." The demon bowed. "My apologies."

The earl nodded, unconcerned and, in fact, a little bored. "Take it and go."

"What shall I tell Misters Whitehall and Belmont when they inquire after the fragrance's name?"

_Graciosa._

Sebastian watched slim fingers clasp and intertwine before folding under his master's chin. "Lily of the Valley." Ciel replied, looking right into Sebastian's carmine eye.

The butler smiled. Smiled, bowed, and turned to leave. He passed through rich corridors and fine halls, letter in hand and red eyes knowing.

 _And the sunshine blazed into the dismal well._ Sebastian chuckled, ruefully amused. For someone so resigned to death, it seemed his master still believed in fairytales.

**Author's Note:**

> \- The glassblower's daughter references the song 'The Blower's Daughter' by Damien Rice. In it, the song speaks of a man who is utterly addicted and infatuated with someone and is unable to let go. 
> 
> \- Hans Christian Anderson: the Danish fairytale author who is famous for 'The Little Mermaid', 'The Ugly Duckling', and 'The Snow Queen'.
> 
> \- Sun King: Louis XIV of France who built the palace of Versailles. A purveyor of fashion, glamor, and absolute monarchist power. He reigned for 72 years.
> 
> \- "And the sunshine blazed…" references the French fairytale 'Graciosa and Percinet' by Madame d'Aulnoy. A very sweet, romantic read if anyone's interested. (Graciosa, in the tale, is a supposedly unattainable princess. Percinet, in love with her, performs valiant feats of bravery and devotion to curry her favor. Eventually, through trials and tribulations, Percinet wins Graciosa's love and she agrees to marry him.)
> 
> A/N: Ah, Ciel. With his thoughts masqueraded and truths thinly veiled, this watchdog inspires both whimsy and melancholy.
> 
> Feedback is appreciated (and indeed encouraged!).
> 
> Edit: HBD Vincent!


End file.
